


Forget

by again



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Basically about Justin, I...can't write tags, M/M, POV Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk), Queer As Folk season 2x04, Sick Justin, um idk?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 05:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/again/pseuds/again
Summary: "Go find a stud, ask him to dance."Or Justin's thoughts after that.





	Forget

"Go find a stud, ask him to dance," I said, giving Brian a peck on the shoulder, internally blaming myself for saying that. I turned my back on him, ignoring the 13.798 other things going on in my brain, rattling and coiling up against each other. I felt my blood thrumming against my skin, the music and the guys, and the smell of everything, was just overwhelming.  
  
It was suffocating.  
  
I could be a bigger man--see? I was being one. Just because he helped me overcoming my fears, taming my mood swings, building my confidence and courage, giving me his home and care, didn't mean that he's....well, didn't mean anything. Didn't mean he's anyone's now.  
  
At least this way, I could do something for him, other than just being a tail and a burden. A constant reminder of what he'd not fixed --one prom night in a parking garage--by a fraction of a second earlier, two weeks of coma earlier, a month of rehab earlier. Of someone that had become his responsibility, for no other reason than his own guilty conscience.  
  
Shit.  
  
I walked out of there as fast as I could, breathing the fresh air and taking in the twinkling fairy lights across the road; the bursts of pink, purple, coral chiffon and nylons everyone seemed to be wearing tonight. Drag queens and women in leather, and the other kinds of freaks had their hands up the air, colliding with the beats.  
  
The Liberty Avenue continued on looking as beautiful and poetic as always, just more vibrant and alive--even Ted had someone to dance with, good for him.  
  
This afternoon had lifted my spirits for a bit, it'd made me realize of what I'd been missing all these years. All those people, from make-ups and dresses, to rigid suits that cringe when they saw us walking by: seeing our faces, recognizing our features, knowing who we were and locking the memory of what we were doing.   
  
That we wanted to have this thing. And we had people that love us for wanting it. That we were happy to have _and_ to love this thing. That it was _us,_ that want it.  
  
Meanwhile, the aftermath of the parade, to me, basically looked like a good fuck. It just...stayed with you, feeling the atmosphere and the high, for hours. Tasting and smelling the joy, the pounding of the heartbeats, the excitements, while also being clueless of the future and what it holds. And still, I knew that I'd had a good time, and that was honestly all I could've hoped for.

As for the rest, what I did know is that I would have to clean up the mess, sweep up the bits of confetti off the side of the road, and forget. 

Maybe it was as simple as that. Perhaps if I tried hard enough, I'd get this damned switch off and, I don't know, piece my life together again? Pick up the shattered remains. Forget about it. Move on. On and off. On and off. Simple as that.  
  
I've had enough with this fucking switch. Maybe in my 19th birthday I'd wish something like, _I hope my stupid brain can stop replaying it._ Or _I hope I'd never seen that Hobbs person in my entire life._ Or _I hope for a better poker face, or a better smile, or a better gaze, so he doesn't really have to see me being a scared little queer._ Or _I hope all that was never real, and I'm back to that night under the rusty lamppost._ Then I'd blow out the candles. But I guess what I'd get at the end is a new 50 dollar painting set. Yeah well, dreams couldn't get real anyway.

With the exception of Brian Kinney, of course.  
  
Brian liked to stare at me when he thought I wasn't looking. When he was talking to Michael; when he was on the phone; when he had a double Jim Beam; when he was with the guys and I was busting the tables. Yet I couldn't really pay attention too hard, since, if he'd known I'd noticed, he'd stop looking.

And I wouldn't want that. I wanted those hazel eyes to stay on me, at least that was _one_ thing that I wanted that I could still have. So I reveled in it. I drank it.

But I knew enough that they weren't filled with his unending love and adoration towards me, and instead they were his expressions of concern and regret. And despite the every-five-second-check-on-Justin-just-in-case-he-went-khoo-khoo-in-the-middle-of-the-diner looks by basically everyone, I'll take it the way I can. I'll take any kind of Brian any way I can.  
  
Because that was what I've become. And there was actually nothing I could do to change that. I was an object that needed to be looked after, like Molly to one of her barbies; the flickering blue neon shit of a sign in front of Woody's on a Pride night that says "I almost died, come and check me out. Drinks only $4.50." It's confusing, and exhilirating. And exhausting.  
  
I didn't get to do what I _wanted_ to do. I got to do what I _could_ do. And I got to have what I _could_ have.  
  
Tap.  
  
"Hey, stud." He said, nodding his chin. "Wanna dance?"  
  
"Shut up." I said, snorting. I rolled my eyes for emphasis. Then Brian practically laid out his eyes for me to read. In all capital. And I couldn't move.

His face showed a sign of stress, like the one after that time when he had to choose the graphics for that shoes ad. He'd said, "one wrong move could fuck up the entire campaign." 

But he'd chosen anyway, not knowing if it's the right move at all. Brian, he didn't really do well with uncertainty, but after everything, I should've known that life was full of fucking surprises.   
  
I walked away, knowing full well I'd just cause him more trouble if I'd decided not to. Didn't stop him from grabbing my wrist though, and flinging me to his chest like those cheesy hetero movies, and for a second, I dead thought he was possessed.  
  
"I promise you won't forget this one." he curled his bottom lip, and it made me feel a bit weird, about how real it all seemed. A _trust me,_ unspoken _._

And an _it was the best night of my life,_ remembered.

And I thank whoever's up there, that I didn't forget that one.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So like, I made this at 11 pm and uh...I'm pretty sure no one's gonna read this dramatic blob caused by sleep deprivation, but in case there is, thank you for reading :) 
> 
> PS. I'm truly sorry for every grammatical error and inconvenience that occurs in this story as this is, kind of, the first time I've ever attempted writing something like this. So any feedback is appreciated.


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